Mining the Memories

As a gift to our children and grandchildren, I have been “downsizing” 10 scrapbooks that date back to my early childhood — when the population of Florence, Alabama, was 24,000 and World War II was ending. A small letter costs 2 cents to mail with a three-line address: Harriet Tomlinson, Sherrod Ave., City.

The remnants of my history lay before me, and I began turning the fragile pages, carefully opening the tiny, mailed invitations to small dances and gatherings our parents had for us in our homes. Tasseled dance cards with boys’ names scribbled in pencil filled the adjacent page. I remembered each boy, wondering what their years have been like — are they still alive? I know that a few are.

I found two elementary school “newspapers” – “The Kilby Feast” — 8-1/2 x 11, numerous pages, printed by sixth graders on a duplicating machine. The faded purple ink no longer stained, but I could still read the “interest” articles, riddles, jokes and sports — all written by children. A fourth grade joke: “Sam was about to leave for the office. ‘Dear’, said his wife, ‘Does money talk?’ ‘Yes’ Sam said, ‘That’s what they say.’ ‘Well I wish you would leave some here to talk to me during the day. I get so lonesome.’” Hmm!

Group class pictures of each year — the skirts of our dresses pulled down to our shoes as we all sat on the amphitheater steps – hair uncombed, mostly not posed. Awkward pictures from 6th grade summer camp — we looked so chubby, so unsure of ourselves. Summer church and music camps — transitions into high school — the same friends through the 12th grade! The yearly changes were appreciable.

Another book: full of programs from our town’s concert series — a huge community effort: Rubinstein, Heifetz, Beverly Sills, Fred Waring, operas! A friend from those years reminded me that Margaret Truman (the President’s daughter) even sang there — in our high school auditorium. Our children didn’t know those artists when I mentioned how excited I had been about the performances. It caught me by surprise. They were world renown. Who would remember? Who would care? Indeed, who would cherish those recollections — my history? I put the programs back in the save pile.

I looked again at the discarded items, and at the saved ones, thinking of the friends who have colored my life. I began writing names on manila envelopes, putting aside articles and pictures that would bring smiles through the mail.

Pages in subsequent books covered high school and college. Two letters from an attentive beau — he ended up at Harvard. I perused the Internet for Harvard reunions. His name didn’t match the picture — a bit rounder and with less hair than I recall. Then I moved along through travel itineraries, music programs, wedding invitations (attendants in several), funeral services. Our own wedding announcement, toasts to the brides and grooms, pictures (often black and white).

A new scrapbook, 1975-1981, starkly changed the memorabilia and the memories. The pages, covered with crayoned swirls and “artistically” pasted flowers for Mother’s Day tell my motherhood story. Circular drawings of faces with huge eyes and mouths, four or five strands of hair growing out of the heads, wide-opened stick arms — and always a heart. Kindergarten at St. Michael’s and her loving teachers — Miz Wishon, Miz Palmour, Miss Hazel — only three of the beloved ones! Days of sweet performances, All Angels Chapel, choirs and acolytes!

Articles, loving notes of remembrances and cards, connected our three sons to us through middle school, mission trips, jazz and marching bands, high school and college. Occasionally, the tears fell as my memories of

Mining the Memories

the loss of our son, Robert, caught up with my laughter. Most photographs of their achievements during those years remain in their own scrapbooks and albums to be enjoyed with their children.

Greeting cards then were just as humorous and hilarious as they are today, and I laughed at each one, as I lovingly laid most of them in a white bag with a red tie.

I did save letters of appreciation and a few honors that are part of my history, part of my volunteer years, and I cherish each one. I am filled with gratitude and appreciation for the friends, the associations and the music that have enriched my life.

As friends and family members receive envelopes, my phone rings or emails arrive -- someone laughs, is delighted. “How did you keep all of this?” they say. We agree that it is good — to remember our awkward days, our sweethearts, our innocents, our advantages, our losses, our families, our hopes.

I never imagined the days would come when I would actually have time to sort through my history. But for me, isolation’s reward has been hours of reflection, priceless reconnections, God-centered spiritual re-bonding. I rejoice that the pages of tattered scrapbooks have offered solace and joy during our uncertain times — a time to remember when our lives were so different.

Words: & Photo: Harriet Hill

Harriet Hill is the author of For the Love of Robert and Escaping Viet

Nam. She is a mother and grandmother and an avid keeper of history.